Reviewed by Ed Gibbs

Winner of 10 Goyas (Spanish Oscars), this highly imaginative black-and-white silent offering from Spain was unfairly snubbed by the Academy, following The Artist's Oscar haul last year.

In fact, Pablo Berger's film pre-dates Michel Hazanavicius' The Artist by several years (he claims to have had it in development for almost a decade), and trumps its unrelated, feelgood cousin with an astonishing vision and story arc that proves irresistible on screen.

A major hit on the festival circuit (notably, at Toronto and San Sebastian) Blancanieves tells the tragic tale of a girl, Carmen (Macarena Garcia). She grows up an orphan, away from her famous father, a champion bullfighter, only to be taken in by a wicked stepmother, Encarna (Maribel Verdu), a sort of Spanish Cruella de Vil.

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Meanwhile, Carmen's father, a dashing figure by the name of Antonio Villalta (Daniel Gimenez Cacho), is holed up in his country pile after a nasty bullfight left him paralysed. He is widowed - Carmen's mother dies during her birth - and he is bullied into marrying Encarna, the nurse turned evil stepmum, whose villainous glee at appropriating his estate is soon mirrored by her own lavish tastes in self-promotion and carnal desire (mostly with her chauffeur, who becomes a foil for pseudo-masochistic role play).

Berger's film is an absolute delight: a thrillingly unpredictable romp topped with a suitably ambiguous finale that entertains with joyful and mischievous abandon.

Carmen's formative years make way for an extended stint with a crew of dwarves (they number six, she rounds out the seven), after Encarna fails to have her bumped off in the woods. Much to the dwarves' delight - they, too, are bullfighters - Carmen soon displays an ability in the ring that mirrors that of her beloved father, whose presence is still felt throughout society.

With fond nods to Hitchcock and Bunuel, among others, Berger delivers a masterpiece that, were it not for The Artist, would surely have gained greater exposure, far beyond any novelty value it shares with its French counterpart.

Delightful and welcome though it was, The Artist pales in comparison to Berger's breathtaking vision and narrative flair. Transposing a fairytale to early 20th century Spain, replete with all the shortcomings that pre-war society imposed on family and expression, is a stroke of storytelling genius all too rare on screen.